


Vileness

by Erimia



Category: Mariana Pineda - Federico Garcia Lorca
Genre: F/F, F/M, Federico García Lorca - Freeform, Femslash February, Femslash February 2021, Historical, Period-Typical Attitudes, Unrequited Love, original story by Гусар на крыше, translated from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29157981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erimia/pseuds/Erimia
Summary: Vileness can destroy any beauty. Vileness poisons not just one victim but many, victim's friends and loved ones. And it's the most terrifying when disguised as justice.
Relationships: Mariana Pineda/Amparo, Mariana Pineda/Fernando, Mariana Pineda/Pedro Sotomayor





	Vileness

**Author's Note:**

> This is my translation of the story [Подлость](https://ficbook.net/readfic/1571310) by [Гусар на крыше](https://ficbook.net/authors/19746). I would like to thank the author for writing their story and for giving me permission to translate it.

When Amparo's mother tells her that on Christmas Eve their whole family is visiting Mariana Pineda, Amparo tosses her head and curls her full lips with displeasure. There is not a single person in Granada who has never heard this name. Everyone would say: Mariana Pineda is a widow in her thirties and the mother of two adorable kids, a boy and a girl. They are obedient, diligent and studious: the boy is an excellent artist and his mother envisions him as a student of the Granada University; the girl will grow up to be a faithful, virtuous wife for a worthy spouse that her mother will find for her. Mariana Pineda is also pious and humble. It doesn’t matter if the weather foul or fair, if she's in good or ill health, she still goes to church every morning. She knows by heart all the prescribed prayers and also many non-prescribed ones, gracefully adds her sonorous voice to the choir's singing and listens to the preacher's ardent words with charming attention. Mariana Pineda, without doubt, is compassionate and immensely magnanimous, always helping the destitute – she has a lot of friends whom she approaches when a place is needed for orphans or elderly people with failing eyes and legs. And even though her means are small, Mariana Pineda somehow manages to set aside some money for charity.

You can't accuse Mariana of the things that women like to accuse other women of: she's not frivolous, not chatty, never cries over trifles or without a reason, and, not having had any young pretty lovers when her husband was alive, hasn't had any after his death either. More than that, she also turns down respectable citizens, distinguished aristocrats who, if their own words are to be believed, have descended from the Catholic Monarchs. She offers them her friendship and nothing besides it.

Yes, Mariana Pineda is flawless like an angel.

On the road to Mariana's house mother keeps talking tirelessly about how refined and exquisite Mariana's garden is, how clean and cozy her shadowy rooms are. The father nods along and Amparo exchanges furtive glances with Fernando and Lucia, seeing her annoyance reflected in the eyes of her brother and sister. She wants to complain to Lucia about inescapable boredom that has been permeating the secluded widow's house for years. But she can't say this aloud and leaning towards them to whisper this would be too uncomfortable – her comb is pulling at her hair so tight that she feels a little dizzy.

Amparo thinks that women like Mariana are ridiculously boring and preposterous in their stodgy virtuousness. They are austere and reserved, their dresses are made of durable but plain material, are neither ill-fitting not well-fitting and don’t show a single immodest patch of skin. Even in youth their stone hearts don’t know how it feels to be pounding with overwhelming emotion and their yellowed cheekbones never flush. These women look faded in comparison with the living ones, the real ones, the tangible ones like Amparo. They hate them and envy them and, driven with this envy, try to entrap them in the same frigid impeccability that entraps their own lives.

Such thoughts cheer Amparo up and she smiles, earning the nod of approval from her mother who has been lamenting that her daughter is so often sad and gloomy.

In the house of Mariana Pineda they are met by an elderly maid who introduces herself as Clavela. Amparo can see that Clavela is a commoner from Madrid because of her white blouse and similarly white shawl.

Clavela has an amiable face, with the warm radiant eyes under the gray eyebrows that inspire trust the most in Amparo. Scurrying around them amusingly, Clavela takes their coats and shows the guests to the dining room.

The room is small, with bookcases lining the walls. Amparo looks idly at the titles: the Bible side by side with the freedom-loving and provocative books by Goethe and Byron. The table is set for ten people, with three-tier bronze candelabras on the ends because of the impenetrable darkness behind the window. But the dining room doesn’t feel cluttered at all: the dainty mahogany furniture seems weightless.

Amparo’s glance goes further and stops on the children. The girl is very small but dresses like an adult. She behaves like a fearful dragonfly and her brother, ready to protect her, swells with pride. The kids are charming, but they leave Amparo indifferent. 

At first she doesn’t notice their mother and wonders where she is, but when Mariana appears from the depths of the house, Amparo’s whole body shudders. The heart palpitates painfully in her breast, as if Amparo is suffocating with sweltering heat.

The people of Granada are disgusting liars. The rumors that they spread about Mariana Pineda are slander just because they don’t fully convey how pure and beautiful she is.

Her eyes are dark and fathomless like the night, not a fleck of light in them. They are so sharp that nothing can hide from Mariana’s sight.

The large red month that barely fits in the face would ruin the looks of any woman but Mariana. It looks sensual and striking.

Mariana Pineda isn’t walking but gliding, swaying her hips like a nymph that escaped from a picture.

When Mariana Pineda greets her guests, a sweet otherworldly flower blossoms on her lips. When she offers them to sit down, her purring voice rolls over Amparo like a warm salty wave relentlessly sweeping her away. It intoxicates Amparo stronger than sherry.

She burns with desire to hear this voice again and again, to drink in it, but Mariana Pineda, like always, prefers to be quiet and listen.

Mariana Pineda is intelligent and much more thoughtful than other women known to Amparo. Mother asks her about fashion, Lucia about jewelry, father and Fernando about politics and religion, but she always knows how to answer. Mariana speaks concisely but passionately like people in the novels. All her being is full of sincere love towards Spain. This is strange and new for Amparo.

Just after the dessert Clavela, like a shadow, scurries into the room and says that it’s children’s bedtime, and even though they would like to stay up longer with their mother, they are too tired to act up.

Amparo’s family stays for three more hours and all this time Amparo, who has always been talkative, finds herself unexpectedly silent. She’s afraid to say something inappropriate and come across to Mariana as a stupid child.

The only words she manages to force out are to thank Mariana for the visit as she is standing in the threshold. Mariana hugs Amparo warmly. Her skin is smooth and soft like cat’s fur.

Amparo returns home blinded by the beauty, bewildered by the voice and devastated by the feelings that she has never known before.

***

Amparo spends next three days in the state of semidelirium. Restless, she starts embroidering to keep herself busy. Crimson, as if bloodshot, pomegranates on the golden plate – even the embroidery reminds her of Mariana, but that’s precisely what gives her such joy.

Lucia notices her needlework. 

“You tried to stay away from embroidery hoops since you were little. What happened – have you forgotten how to sing and dance?” she asks Amparo, amused. Amparo sighs.

Lucia sits down next to her with her cross-stitch canvas, and Amparo is grateful that she isn’t badgering her with questions.

It’s Fernando who breaks the cozy silence in their bedroom. He bursts into their room forgetting that Amparo and Lucia are grown up young women, and now it’s improper, and the father forbids doing this… But Amparo doesn’t mind.

“I’m in love!” their brother exclaims. There are red spots on his cheekbones; a strand of hair is stuck on his forehead, wet with sweat. Fernando keeps adjusting his collar as if it’s constricting his throat.

“But with whom?” Lucia leans forward.

“With Mariana Pineda,” his voice is strained with emotion.

“Fernando, you are insane!” Lucia yells, leaping from the chair. Amparo pricks her finger with the needle. If Fernando is insane, who is she, then?

“Oh no, sister, you are wrong,” he shakes his head. “My mind has never been so clear!”

Lucia puts her fists on her hips.

“Marianita is certainly lovely, but she’s old enough to be your mother!” Their sister glances around the room. “In fact, she’s old enough to be the mother of all three of us. Have you thought about this?”

“I assure you, Lucia, this doesn’t matter at all. I will gain her graces at whatever cost and she will be my wife. I’m visiting Mariana tomorrow – she should agree to see me!”

His nostrils are flaring. Lucia suddenly calms down and pats Fernando’s cheek.

Amparo closes her eyes and imagines what will happen if Fernando succeeds to entice Mariana. She will be a part of family, incredibly close, almost within her reach – and at the same time more unattainable than ever. What will happen to the poor Amparo then? Ah, even if she was born a man, she would have to concede Mariana to Fernando because he’s the eldest brother!

Fernando leaves quietly. Amparo licks her dry lips and rushes after him. Lucia shouts out for her, surprised, floorboards creak under bare feet, the door is slammed with an ear-splitting thump.

“Fernando!” Her brother turns his head; she squeezes his palm in hers, cold and damp, and whispers: “Let me go with you tomorrow, I beg you. We both will enjoy it”.

***

It’s soon to be three months since that Christmas Eve. Sometimes, when the southern wind blows,  
Amparo imagines that she feels salt on her lips. Now she is a welcome guest in the house of Mariana Pineda. Clavela and Doña Angustias are not very fond of her and welcome Lucia more, but Amparo believes that Mariana’s eyes light up when she sees her.

Fernando still goes with Lucia and Amparo and sometimes visits Mariana alone, but she doesn’t treat him any different than any other man. Fernando doesn’t give up hope.

“But you did talk about something, didn’t you,” he presses on when he and Amparo are returning home. It’s been raining a lot the last week, and mud is splashing under their feet.

“Not about you!” she brushes him off. “We were reading aloud.”

She closes her eyes, letting the memory of the deep languid voice of Mariana penetrate her soul and pull on her heartstrings. After knowing Pineda for months it still impresses Amparo as much as it did the first time.

Mariana sets the book aside, runs her thin finger over Amparo’s temple, brings her face so close to hers that it’s almost touching her lips and says:

“My dear friend, do you know how good you make me feel? With you I feel fifteen years younger.”

Amparo is ready to possess her month, to bury her hands in her course hair, but Mariana steps back. Amparo can’t understand her.

Fernando is worried about her. “Your cheeks are red,” he says. “Perhaps you’ve caught cold? The weather is quite damp, after all, and you are not dressed for it.”

“Not at all!” Amparo roars with laughter. Mariana’s face is still above hers and she says breathlessly: “I’m so lucky to have met you in Granada…”

Amparo is feverish and feels worse with every step. She keeps laughing and leaning on Fernando for the most of their way home, making Fernando worried for real.

At home she suddenly starts crying. The cry and the laughter tear her chest and throat and she is unable to stop.

“Mother! Dear mother, something horrible is happening with Amparo!” Lucia runs out their room covering her face with her hands while Amparo is falling into darkness.

The next thing she can remember is the soft bed and the wet towel on her forehead covering her eyes.

“Some devilry has been happening with Amparo since we came to Granada.”

Now it’s the mother who is crying and the father decides that a trip around Spain will do their daughter good.

***

Amparo is waiting for a week and half for her aunt Iberia, father’s elder sister, to come from Sevilla to accompany her. And during this time she doesn’t sit idly.

“First you’re going to Madrid,” her mother proclaims triumphantly. “You should dazzle the capital’s society. I looked through your dresses – they are not good for this at all.”

In the fabric store they spend an incredible amount of money which makes Amparo lose her breath, and soon in the tailor's shop three dresses in the latest style are made for her. She’s tired of the endless measure making. Sometimes it seems to her that the tailor is German and doesn’t speak Spanish at all, and the dresses are always either too big or too small which annoys her. But the mother loves the final result and later Amparo herself has to admit that she likes her new clothes.

“Lucky girl!” exclaims Lucia. “I tried to convince father to let me go with you, but he was unrelenting.” 

“I would have swapped places with you without hesitation if they allowed me to,” Amparo assures her sister honestly. She’s sad that she rarely sees Mariana because of the preparations. Or rather, doesn’t see her at all.

The aunt arrives at last. She’s also a widow, and even though she cannot compare with Mariana, Amparo loves the old woman dearly from her early childhood.

“Amparo, child, you look so drawn,” her aunt gasps. “Well, after the trip you won’t recognize yourself in the mirror!”

“I feel so bad about leaving…” Amparo says slowly. “I’ve grown fond of Granada.”

“Then returning to it will be even sweeter,” the aunt kisses her head. 

In the evening before their departure Amparo finally finds time to visit Mariana. Unlike before, it’s not Clavela who opens the door, and not even Doña Angustias, but Mariana herself.

“I missed you.” Mariana steps aside and leans against the wall. She smells tangy, like grapes and jasmine.

“Mother didn’t let me leave her for a single moment.” The unblinking gaze of Mariana’s dark eyes makes Amparo inexplicably embarrassed. “And tomorrow I’m leaving Granada.”

“Fernando told me about this.” Mariana gives her a pensive nod and squints. “I will miss you. My only consolation is that you’ll tell me about everything you’ll see.”

“You’ve probably been there, at least in passing,” Amparo taps her foot unwittingly.

“Maybe I have…” Mariana tilts her head; her hair flows down her back like a mountain river down the stones. “Or maybe not.”

During the dinner Amparo is barely holding tears of resentment towards her father and mother. She doesn’t weep, but Mariana, seeing how awful her younger friend feels, tries to convince her of the necessity to travel and stay in big cities at least for a short time.

“You’re seeing how different people live. You’re comparing their lifestyles. You’re learning to make conclusions, to think. And this means that you’re gaining freedom. The freedom is the most important thing that we have.”

“The most important thing that we have,” repeats Amparo. “I will remember this.” 

“Godspeed, my child,” Mariana crosses her before saying goodbye.

***

In Madrid Amparo dances herself to exhaustion on the balls hosted by people from Alameda. She easily gets used to the luxury of the houses on this street, their splendor and largeness doesn’t feel oppressive. She quickly gets enthralled by the capital. Amparo seldom goes home earlier than three o’clock in the morning, she’s too tired to think about Mariana and miss her. But sometimes she imagines the tiny foot stepping on shiny polished parquet floor, brightly lit empty ballroom and in it fifteen old girl dancing a bizarre serpentine dance, the young Mariana Pineda.

When Amparo isn’t invited to soirees, she and her aunt take a walk about the Plaza Mayor, nodding to the monument of Philip III, sometimes stroll about the Puerta del Sol, near the post office, or along the Paseo del Prado boulevard from the Plaza de Cibeles to the Plaza de Cánovas del Castillo.

To Amparo’s astonishment, Madrid aristocrats consider her a good catch. The aunt, entrusted to find her a husband, meticulously gathers information and rejects one candidate after another. Don Pedro is not rich enough; Don Juan, by contrast, is too wealthy. Don Diego has a bad reputation: he is unsightly and rumor has it that he avoids women like the plague. Don Tancredo is perfect in every way but his family and Amparo’s have been at feud for three generations now.

“Crème de la crème of Spain is all in Madrid,” her aunt sermonizes. “There is no point of even looking at other places.”

Amparo feigns disappointment, but in reality she’s glad. She doesn’t want to get married; she doesn’t love anyone but Mariana, and even her she remembers only dimly.

After a month in Madrid Amparo and her aunt go to Valencia. When Amparo is praying in Capilla del Santo Cáliz, in her imagination she sees a lonely figure in a simple dress. The woman’s eyes are closed, she’s listening to the organ and large tears roll down her cheeks. This is Mariana Pineda, and Amparo feels fallen and dirty.

After Madrid Valencia is too quiet for Amparo, too small, and she is relieved when her aunt decides to go to Ronda.

“We’re staying here only to see the bullfight,” the old woman says. “After that I’ll return you to your father and go to Sevilla, it’s been a long time since my family saw me.”

Amparo can’t wait to go back to Granada and fly into Mariana’s arms, but she doesn’t dare to argue.

The heat isn’t noticeable in Ronda: brilliant white walls make the town feel fresh and cool. Amparo feels she is outside the time now – it freezes up and you can get stuck in it, entrapped like in amber. She constantly looks over her shoulder in fear, as if any moment a moor from old times could run out at her from the Felipe V Arch.

Plaza de Toros is full of people. Waiting for the bullfight to start, young men are dragging about on their shabby grey horses while young women, flocking together, are mocking them with gusto. In response these farcical caballeros take off their brim hats and throw them in the air. They are not offended by the laughter because the laughter is exactly what they were aiming at.

When the bullfighter named Caetano comes on the arena everyone falls silent in awe. Amparo can’t take her eyes from the sight in front of her. Caetano is deft and lithe. He is provoking enormous bulls with his muleta, goading them into fury until pinkish foam appears in their mouths and then easily eluding them. Caetano is stabbing the bulls with the point of his sword and blood snakes are slithering on black shiny hides that cover rolling iron muscles. He’s dangerous and deadly. He’s fierce and fearless like a true warrior. He kills five bulls. If Pedro Romero was alive today, he would have paled in comparison with Caetano. If Mariana Pineda was born a man, she would be his twin brother.

“I have never seen a bullfight that glorious!”

It’s easy to believe: her aunt loves this world-famous Spanish sport since youth and never misses a chance to watch it.

“Caetano is divine.” Even though Amparo says this to please the aunt, she believes her own words.

Amparo’s maternal uncle lives in Ronda, and so they spend the whole day in his mansion. Amparo can barely endure this time – even though she’s glad to see her uncle and his family, she longs for the streets of Granada, the town that has become more dear for her than her home Malaga.

Finally Amparo and her aunt set forward to Granada.

***

Amparo barely manages to clean the road grime from her sticky skin and cool off after the trip when she gets drowned in a flurry of news. Cousin Barbarita is about to get married, uncle Gaston is suffering from gout, Leandra the neighbor is squabbling with her poor mother.

“But most importantly, there is a real criminal in Granada!” blurts out the excited Lucia.

“What criminal?” Amparo asks incredulously.

“Someone named Don Pedro Sotomayor,” her mother interjects. “He’s planning to kill the king. Don Pedrosa has already placed a bounty on his head.”

“This Don Pedro is too sure of himself,” Amparo snickers. “Ferdinand the Seventh is far away in Madrid and can’t be reached from here.”

“Ah, my dear child, those rebels have very fast horses… in the blink of an eye he will be in the royal chamber with a dagger in his hand.” And she adds begrudgingly: “I hope he will hurry. Then you and Lucia will be able to walk freely around the town.”

“I want to visit Mariana tomorrow,” Amparo protests. “We parted in the middle of April, and now it’s the end of June.”

“I could have forbidden this,” her mother sighs. “But I won’t. Your father is going with you and Lucia.”

“And now,” Lucia taps her lips with a napkin and rises from the table, taking her sister by the elbow and leading her away. “You are going to tell me about Madrid, Valencia and Ronda. I understood nothing from the descriptions in your letters.”

They keep talking far into the night and mother orders them to put out the candles three times, but as soon as the door closes behind her Lucia keeps her sister from rising from her bed.

“Is it true that Caetano’s gaze takes away women’s hearts?” Her face is lit up with curiosity.

“I was more interested in bulls…” Amparo knows that she’s lying and it makes her guilty. “And what about Mariana? Did you visit her while I was away?”

“Yes,” Lucia crinkles her little nose. “With each day she gets more secretive and moody. She calls herself an old woman and is losing her looks. Doña Clavela and Doña Angustias think that the banner she’s embroidering won’t bring her any good.”

“What banner?” Amparo’s insides turn to ice.

“I have no idea,” Lucia shrugs. “She doesn’t let anyone see it and forbids Clavela and Angustias from talking about it.”

“Barbara with her yellow teeth and bandy legs is getting married, bandits are prowling the streets and Mariana Pineda has secrets! What’s happened with our Granada?” Amparo groans and rolls her eyes.

“I hope you’ll manage to console Mariana,” her sister scowls. “It’s painful to look at her.”

“I will learn everything tomorrow,” says Amparo, toying with her hair.

***

Mariana’s children are playing in the garden. Amparo can hear their joyous laughter from there.

“Not sure at all if Mariana will agree to see you. She sends everyone away and doesn’t even let me wash the floor in her bedroom,” laments Clavela.

“We don’t want to be there anyway,” Amparo huffs, “We are perfectly content to wait for her in the sitting room.”

Clavela leaves, sulking.

Lucia was wrong: Mariana hasn’t lost her looks at all. The pain even suits her youthful noble face, but that’s not what she was created for.

Her attire is even simpler than before: the dress in the color of pale mallow and a lush rose behind her ear.

“Mariana!” cries out Amparo, putting her arms around her. Mariana holds her awkwardly and rumples her hair. Lucia pushes her sister aside and hugs Mariana herself.

“Amparo, you’re grown even more beautiful.”

Mariana seems slightly less sad now than she was moments before, which is a good sign.

“And you look just as delightful as you did in the spring.”

Amparo tries to finally cheer her up but only ruins everything.

“I’m a widow with two almost grown up children.” Mariana’s face darkens. “And you’re flattering me, darling.”

“Not true,” Amparo disagrees; her face is burning. “I would have never believed that you’re in your thirties if I didn’t know how honest you are. Fernando, too…” Bringing up her brother now is not a good idea, and Amparo’s voice falters.

“Fernando what?” Mariana’s voice is faint and lifeless.

“He… he wrote a poem about you yesterday.” She has just made it up but she can’t take it back now; if she can take on Madrid’s high society she shouldn’t be scared of a widow from Granada. “And recited it after dinner. He compared your gaze with the bird’s trembling wings and your pupils with the rays of moonlight. By the way, he’s going to visit you this evening.”

“Fernando didn’t…” Lucia starts saying, puzzled, but Amparo angrily pokes her in the rib with her elbow. 

“And isn’t he right?” She shyly strokes Mariana’s neck with her knuckle. “Your neck is so wonderful…”

“Fernando is still a child,” Mariana grins nervously. The sitting room fills with gloomy silence. Even the children’s laughter from the fountain can’t break it.

“We can read some novels,” Lucia offers tentatively, and Amparo is grateful for this. “Remember how we wanted to sit together, pass a book around and read until our voices are hoarse?” 

“Yes…” Mariana answers absent-mindedly. “But I’m suffering from fits of cough, so why should I spoil your pleasure?”

“Then let me tell you about my travels,” Amparo doesn’t give up. “I was born in Malaga, came to Granada in the winter, lived in Madrid and Valencia, breathed the air of Ronda – it was permeated with the smell of bull’s sweat…” 

“Wait!” Mariana puts a finger on her lips and Amparo’s heart soars. It seems no travel can heal her twisted obsession.

Mariana calls Clavela and quietly asks her about something. The old woman slowly shakes her head. Mariana clenches her fists and bites her lips. She keeps eagerly perking up with her whole body when any knocking is heard behind the window and relaxing in disappointment when she understands that this is the sounds of children playing outside.

“Is someone paying you a visit today?” Amparo pretends to be guessing and doesn’t let Mariana answer. “Then sorry for bothering you! Don’t forget that Fernando is coming by the dinner time.”

Amparo is trembling with fury and desire to shake Mariana, to scream “Now tell me what’s going on with you! Share you woes, I have the right to know!” But it’s not proper to do this to anyone.

Thankfully, Fernando indeed is coming to the gates of Mariana’s house.

“If you find out what’s eating her, don’t hide this from me,” Amparo has enough time to whisper this to him. But not enough to warn him about her poem trick. 

***

It’s well past midnight and Lucia is sleeping peacefully. Amparo envies her: she’s laying sleepless and motionless on the end of the bed, and despite the dry summer heat her body feels like it’s covered in ice. She’s freezing but doesn’t even try to wrap herself up in the blanket. Fernando is still not home and Amparo is sick with worry. Not she alone – she can hear the buzz of her parents’ voices over the wall.

“The times are dangerous,” her mother laments, her hands are probably crossed on her lap. “My heart is bleeding.”

“Fernando is young and hot-blooded.” Amparo could have sworn that her father is smiling, warmly and leniently like always. “And he’s not a damsel so meeting Pedro Sotomayor won’t destroy him. Our son is a true caballero and is able get out of scrapes unharmed.”

“You wouldn’t understand me.” Her mother uses her favorite argument: “You didn’t bear him under your heart and didn’t bring him into this world.”

“Weeping and grieving without a reason is what women do.” Father isn’t as benevolent as before, mother is making him angry. “Now tell me, if it’s the year of eighteen eight all over again, will you keep demanding Fernando to go back to your apron strings before the night falls?”

“Cease that!” mother says resentfully. “Just because you were in Madrid in the May of that year and barely avoided getting mauled by the French dogs doesn’t mean that you’re a great and wise warrior.”

They keep quarreling in hushed voices, making it hard for Amparo to hear everything. Unbeknownst to herself she’s sinking into a dream viscous like a spider web. There no faces in it, no dreams, no events, only darkness. Amparo feels sick, she’s trying to escape this abyss but to no avail. And behind her back – she can feel it – a spider huge like a fighting bull is moving its shaggy legs, and if a ray of light could ever reach her dream she would see that its mandibles are glistening with saliva.

“Amparo, wake up,” someone calls her softly, and little lights flicker behind her eyes. Scared, she tries to squash them with her hand. A drop of melted wax falls on her skin and burns painfully.

“Amparo!”

Fernando is shaking her now, and Lucia is fidgeting restlessly, tossing and turning, soft sigh of wakening escaping her lips.

“Ssh!” Amparo shushes her brother, jumps from the bed, takes him by the wrist and leads him away from the room.

After making sure that the parents and the servants are asleep and won’t suspect everything, she orders:

“Now tell me everything.”

Fernando looks miserable, confused, and downbeat; Amparo feels concern for him and fear for Mariana at the time.

“Mariana Pineda is burning with passion.”

Is it possible that Mariana’s flesh is consumed with languor and yearning like her own? But then why is Mariana withering away?

“And her beloved is Don Pedro Sotomayor!”

The news strikes Amparo like a two-handed sword falling on her neck.

“Why are you so sure?” she keeps pressing on Fernando urgently. There is still a chance that it’s just a mistake, a misunderstanding!

“I read his letter to Mariana.” Her brother is struggling for breath like a worn down horse, like a man who lost his mind with pain under torture, and Amparo feels ashamed of her own selfishness, but she can’t help herself. “I… I saw him! I spoke to him.” Fernando’s face contorts and he hits his chest with a groan. “This night Mariana Pineda saved Pedro Sotomayor, and I was just her means to an end.” 

He raises his eyes to look at Amparo – his face is strangely serene – and gently runs his nail down her palm.

“You don’t know how dastardly and wretched Don Pedro is. I’m afraid that he’s fooling Mariana. Because I swear that his hands are not for lover’s caresses. They can only inflict pain.” Fernando twists his mouth like a sulking child. “And then… Mariana humiliated me. Called me unreasonable little boy and sent me away.”

“Ah, what has become of her,” whispers Amparo bitterly. “Why is she insulting the one who has always been so devoted to her!”

“She probably knows not what she does. Poor betrayed Mariana! But when she needs help, I will race towards her house at the first call.” Fernando closes his eyes. “It’s stronger than me, Amparo.”

Overwhelmed with tenderness, Amparo reaches out and brings Fernando close. Her brother buries his face in her chest. Swallowing her tears, Amparo strokes his disheveled hair and the tensed muscles of his spine.

“Thank you, Fernando,” she keeps saying. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for our Marianita.”

***

Mariana Pineda is arrested. Mariana Pineda is a rebel, a revolutionary, a villainess. She doesn’t love the king but loves Spain, freedom and Don Pedro, so she should be put into heavy chains and left to rot in prison, be turned into dust and have her name be turned into a ghost.

“The only reason she is convicted,” says her mother with indignation, “is because she embroiders so well. Truly, the pattern on the banner makes Don Pedrosa cry tears of blood.”

“She will be sentenced to death, that’s clear,” her father comments cruelly.

“But maybe they won’t dare to carry it out. I know it, I heard it could happen,” Fernando says hotly.

“Pedrosa would ensure that it happens.” Father sounds sad.

“Don Pedrosa is a coward,” Fernando snarls. “There are people who seem well-informed that he dreamed of marrying Mariana. And let the case against her be opened not because of the banner but because she rejected him.”

“Even if it’s a lie,” father shrugs, “he’s still wasting his time on wrong things. His duty is looking for Pedro Sotomayor and his accomplices, not waging war against a widow.”

Amparo clutches the table edge to prevent herself from fainting. She spends the rest of the day restlessly wandering about the house, finishes embroidering the long-forgotten pomegranates, at night tries to read the Bible by candlelight but can’t – tears are dimming her eyes and the letters look blurred like inkblots. Amparo is not sure if praying to the Virgin Mary to save Mariana Pineda would be right and doesn’t dare to ask anyone.

Lucia quietly slides into the room. The sisters sit down on the bed and start crying silently, leaning their foreheads together and hugging each other.

In the morning Amparo runs to the orphaned house of Mariana. Seeing her, Doña Angustias bursts into tears; quiet, scared children cling to her for protection. Clavela holds onto a chair heavily, her face looks bloodless, but she isn’t crying.

“I would love to, but I can’t… I’m too old to cry, my heart is shriveled…” she murmurs, and Amparo understands her words more by reading her lips than by hearing them.

“Where have they taken her?” 

“They said they put her in the convent, so that she could pray for forgiveness of her sins before the execution,” Doña Angustias manages to answer despite convulsive sobs choking her. 

“Is visiting her allowed?” Amparo asks urgently. Doña Angustias nods with difficulty.

Amparo comes to her senses only when she is near the gates of the convent. 

***

“Are you a friend of Mariana Pineda?” The novice is like a dove, humble and plain. 

“I hope I am and I want to see her,” Amparo answers hotly.

“I will show you the way to her room but I can’t let you see her…” the novice starts.

“Why?” Amparo interrupts her and runs up to her like a furious witch.

“Mariana Pineda is praying,” the novice whispers reverently. “No one has the right to interrupt someone’s prayer. I will unlock the door when she finishes.”

Amparo understands that her fit of anger makes no sense and giggles nervously. 

“I feel so bad for Mariana,” the novice says. “When I, or my sisters, or the mother Carmen, are near her, she is steadfast and sometimes even in a humorous mood, but when we leave she starts weeping so hard that you probably can hear it in all corners of the convent. As if her heart was taken out from her…”

“Mariana is proud, but not arrogant.”

“And she calls for Don Pedro so sorrowfully… He must have a heart of stone – if someone called for me like that, I’d come even if it took me to cross the rivers and the lakes.”

“Well, that’s why I’m coming,” Amparo responds thoughtlessly and feels her face getting pale.

“It’s wonderful that this poor woman has friends like you.” The novice can’t know, of course. How can she suspect anything forbidden? Amparo is not a man.

“Doña Angustias and her faithful servant Clavela are watching over the children. They are not young so they were too afraid to come,” she starts apologizing for no apparent reason. The novice is blinking her round birdlike eyes in agreement.

They walk in silence and stop in front of the heavy doors that must be made of oak. They are thick but even through them Amparo can hear Mariana pray. She presses her ear to the keyhole to not miss a single word. She doesn’t dare to look inside – the novice's inquisitive gaze is already making her uncomfortable.

“One time when I was watching her,” the novice says hesitantly, “the light above her head looked like a halo…”

Amparo motions her to be quiet. 

Mariana is talking to her late parents, thanking them for instilling courage in her. Mariana is begging her dead husband to forgive her for her passion for Pedro that burns in her like the inquisition fire and for the freedom that he would have found inexcusable.

“You were so good but kept coughing all the time,” she coos over her dead son. “And then you fell asleep on my chest…”

Her voice sometimes sounds far away and weak and sometimes close and loud – she is walking from wall to wall.

“One day we will meet and I will embrace you all,” Mariana leans all her weight against the door and Amparo’s heart is about to break. “It may happen tomorrow, but if my Pedro comes by the dusk, I’ll die only a century later, against all odds!”

The novice pulls at Amparo’s sleeve:

“See! How could Don Pedro not rescue the woman who loves him so much from this stale swamp?”  
Amparo understands that Fernando, who kept saying that Mariana was betrayed, led into a trap by her own lover, was right.

“Don Pedro Sotomayor,” Mariana Pineda is purring like a cat. “Wasn’t it you who clutched my head and kissed me until I felt faint? Wasn’t it you whom the police stopped pursuing and left for dead when they saw you fall from your saddle down the stony precipice? Wasn’t it you for whom I was spending nights without sleep, tired, pricking my fingers till they bled and swelled, but did embroider the golden banner of the Freedom, so that all the patriots of Spain joined under your command after seeing it? Don Pedro?” Amparo can vividly imagine Mariana looking around. “Where are you?”

She is wailing, wailing like an animal, as if her gut was ripped open and her body was torn to pieces. The hairs on Amparo’s neck stand out, drops of sweat slide down her back.

The novice takes out a bunch of keys. 

It’s not Mariana Pineda who is behind this door. A demon is raving there. Amparo is afraid of seeing it.

“No, no!” She shakes her head and turns round. “She’s insane!”

“Señorita, where are you going?” the novice looks perplexed. “She needs your consolation!”

“Don’t tell her about me!” says Amparo before leaving.

***

Alcaiceria is soaked with sun and filled with people. It’s easy to get lost among voluminous colorful dresses, umbrellas and hats. To pave the way, Amparo is pushing aside men and women, the old and the young. Sometimes she sees the girls she knows, some wave at her amiably, some react with affected anger over getting their dresses dirty because of her, but it’s enough for her to frown at her meddlesome friends gruffly to get away from them.

“Each of you was welcome in the house of Mariana Pineda. How dare you laugh and flirt now when she’s in trouble?” Amparo barely restrains herself from blaming them. As for her own guilt, what she calls upon herself isn’t blame but damnation.

Trying to shake off her cousin Gabriela, Amparo barely avoids bumping up against Don Pedrosa.

Don Pedrosa has a shiny bald spot on his temple, and his thin pale hair makes him look even more pathetic. He’s lean and would have to raise himself on tiptoes to be the same height with Amparo. His bloodless mouth sneers condescendingly, showing his teeth, and the colorless eyes of a thief don’t rest on anything. The fingers look like they are always fidgeting, they are pale and clammy like those of a dead man, like the legs of the spider from her old dream.

Everything inside Amparo revolts with hatred. If only she could come nearer, if only could hit him in the cold cheek, but she knows that after that she would end up behind the oaken doors of the convent like Mariana. 

Why isn’t Amparo a cat? She would have clawed Pedrosa’s eyes, and he would have died of festering scars.

Why isn’t Amparo a bull? She would have gored Pedrosa and pierced his liver.

Why isn’t Amparo a man? She would have stuck a knife into Pedrosa’s heart to the very hilt.

Well, then she will make a new banner of Freedom, embroider the name of Mariana Pineda on it with red and gold threads and strangle Don Pedrosa with it. And even though her throat will surely be gripped by garrote, no one in Granada will blame her.

With her shoulders straightened and her head held high, Amparo passes Pedrosa unnoticed and walks off ceremoniously. 

***

The night before the execution Amparo can’t even have a nap. With her hand under her heavy head, she spends it gazing unblinkingly at the lightly flickering candle flame. When she gets down for breakfast in the morning, she feels like she was drugged through sand and had sunstroke.

“You’re out of your mind,” her mother throws up her hands and touches her cheek with ice-cold fingers. “You’re running a fever. Not to mention that strangulation with a garrote is not an appropriate sight for a girl of your standing.” 

Amparo’s face is indeed feverishly red – she can see her reflection in the shiny polished cutlery – but entertainment is not why she is dying to get to the square. Amparo suppresses with effort the desire to reproach her mother for her cruel words.

“And Fernando hasn’t been here since the dawn,” mother says angrily. “No, Granada is a cursed place for us. When this crazy story is forgotten, we are moving to Sevilla.”

“And abandon Mariana’s children to live in poverty?” responds Amparo hoarsely. Her throat feels covered with creaks. “No one would help them but us.”

Mariana doesn’t matter for her mother as much as for Amparo, doesn’t matter for her as much as the fortress that she and Amparo’s father have built piece by piece during their marriage, but she has a big heart. Mother winces as if she has been hit and falls silent. She’s breathing heavily and keeps adjusting a gray lock of hair falling on her wrinkly forehead. Lucia turns her uncomprehending gaze from her mother to her sister, sighs, tries to say something, but doesn’t dare.

“You’ve always been wilful, Amparo,” mother says sharply, “but you’re easier to manage than Fernando. You’re ill and need rest. I forbid you to leave your bedroom today. Do you hear me?”

She clinks her fork against her plate lightly, showing that they are done talking.

Amparo is the first one to return to her bedroom. The thick curtains covering the windows leave the room is semi-darkness. Amparo’s eyes are itchy after the sleepless night, but she draws the fabric open. For a moment she turns away from the blinding rays of the Granada’s sun streaming down her face, but then gets over herself and flings the window open. It’s blazing hot. The smell of acacia in bloom is suffocating. Amparo strains her ears – is the rustle of anyone’s steps heard on the stairs? But it seems that Lucia can’t dare to bother her and now is sitting on the sofa in the sitting room and turning over the pages of a book that smell of dust.

Climbing down the tree wouldn’t be as easy for Amparo as it was for her in her childhood years in Malaga, she will inevitably get her dress torn and dirty. It would be improper and disgraceful to walk the town streets looking like this, but Mariana is going through a much more barbarian disgrace at this very moment, so Amparo is willing to experience humiliation for her sake.

She takes off her shoes, sets them tidily near the bed and raises her foot.

“Señorita, what are you doing?” The shouting and flinging up of the hands sound like thunder to her ears. Amparo falters and, latching onto the footboard, turns her neck. Conchita, the maid who looked after her sister and her in Malaga and followed their family to Granada, stands in the doorway with her fists against her curved hips. She crosses the room with confidence and painfully grips Amparo’s elbows.

“Get out!” 

She tries to wrench herself free, but Conchita, though old, is strong like a bull, while Amparo is exhausted.

“I suspected that you were up to something,” Conchita murmurs. “Your mother has so many duties, how can she keep an eye on you. But I do notice and see everything.”

She draws Amparo closer. 

“From Christmas Eve you haven’t been yourself, señorita.” Conchita cradles her to her saggy breast, like a child. “You think only about Mariana Pineda. You speak only about her instead of chatting about Madrid and Ronda as supposed to. Enough, señorita, don’t be sad. For people as crazy as Mariana the death brings joy and relief.”

“You’re lying, lying, you wretched hag,” Amparo croaks in a choked voice. Mariana would have been alive for a hundred years more if not for the vileness of others.

The maid forces her to sit down. 

“Wretched, very wretched,” agrees she. “And I won’t let you leave until your mother allows it” 

Amparo jerks her head up and sees Conchita block the door. She’s hurting so much that it’s hard to even breath, let alone weep and argue.

Two hours are left before the execution of Mariana Pineda. 

***

Slow, measured striking of the clock announces that the time is near. The clock is unaware that this inexorable chiming is bringing nearer the horribly unjust death. And even if it was aware, so what? Its only duty is to chime at the proper time and measure as many strikes as needed.

More minutes transpire. Amparo doesn’t move a muscle. No one tells her whether Mariana is strangled or whether the judges opened their eyes and saw Pedrosa’s true nature that he was carefully hiding from everyone. Or perhaps they’re prolonging her suffering for hours, disparaging her in front of the whole Granada. 

Amparo feels the observant, probing look of Conchita. How is her face looking to others? Oh, if only she could tear open her chest, bare her ribs and crush her heart – it feels so pained and raw.

The silence of the house suddenly breaks and they hear heavy footsteps of hard shoes on the parquet floor. And a sun ray of hope shines through the curtains previously closed by Conchita. A nervous giggle sticks like a lump in Amparo’s throat. She jumps off the bed.

“Where are you going, señorita?” the maid barely has time to react.

“Shame on your deaf ears, Conchita!” Amparo shrieks with excitement; now she’s embarassed for the disgusting insults she said. “This is Fernando, and he’s carrying Mariana Pineda!”

She runs down the stairs barefoot. The steps feel cold under her feet. Yes, yes, Mariana Pineda will be in the sitting room, clinging to Fernando’s shoulder shyly like a virginal bride, still not believing she’s saved and not daring to be glad. “But Fernando helped Don Pedro,” Amparo will tell her. “How could anyone doubt that he won’t come?”

Welcoming, triumphant shout dies on her lips before even starting. Fernando, so courageous and stoical… is in tears?

The eyes of Lucia are shining just as feverishly and unnaturally like those of Amparo. She is standing near the sofa; the book, open just in the middle, is put aside. Father is cracking his fingers awfully. The needles in mother’s hands are moving fast, but she is sobbing dryly and keeps dropping stitches.

“I came to her at the dawn,” Fernando whispers in a lifeless voice. He doesn’t say the name – they all know whom he’s talking about. “To take her away from there. We would have sent her to Sevilla, to aunt Iberia. And from there further away, to a quieter and safer place, wherever she would have wished to go. The nuns would have let us go without protest. They even swarmed around her like butterflies around a fragrant flower and begged her to go with me… They promised to show us a secret passage that only they knew about…”

“Then why did you let her die?” 

This agonized shriek belongs to Lucia. Amparo has lost her voice and can’t force out a single word. Fernando’s face sneers as if contorted by a horrible spasm.

“Don Pedro… What a scum. He left for England with liberals and forgot, betrayed Mariana.” Her brother is consumed with seething, destructive fury, it takes some time for him to master his temper, but he finds strength to continue. “This was what broke her heart. She couldn’t stop crying and was begging to be killed as soon as possible.”

“Good God! Good God!” mother keeps repeating, white as chalk.

“She was insisting that, after she died, Don Pedro would fall in love with her for real and would be devastated till the end of his life.”

“Poor thing!” It seems that father is about to break his own fingers any moment.

“But when they led her on the square with her hair cut short…” Fernando sighs deeply. “She was absolutely calm. Mariana was smiling at the executioner, I swear! And her eyes were blazing with victory until her very last moment.”

Lucia starts fainting. Her knees buckle and she falls on the sofa helplessly. The ball of wool rolls down mother’s knees and she, gathering her skirts, runs to her daughter, gasps, orders Fernando to pour a glass of water from the jug, takes out a flask of smelling salts. 

No one is paying attention to Amparo. She slowly collapses on the floor.

“But my Marianita wasn’t created for suffering!” Amparo screams until her voice is hoarse and, tearing at her gauzy mantilla, finally starts weeping, sobbing violently.


End file.
